Accident
by Simon920
Summary: Dick and Roy are in a little car accident. Warning: Deathfic.


Feedback: Hell, yes. This story came about after my own seventeen-year-old son recently called me with the news he'd been in a car accident. He and two friends were going too fast chasing kids in another car, skidded on ice and slammed into a tree by a local church—the same accident I put Dick and Roy in. Luckily he was fine, though he did come home in shock. The car was totaled but all three walked away without a scratch or drop of blood or a single broken bone between them. He wasn't driving and all three passed the breath tests with zero readings—they hadn't been drinking. The real ending is a testament to technology, seatbelts and airbags, not the common sense of teenagers in cars. This time.

I hate phone calls at night when he's not home…

Thanks to Gabe for the medical details.

**Warning: Deathfic. **

****

**Accident**

"Hello? Bruce?"

"Master Dick? The Master is 'out' at the moment. May I be of assistance?"

"Um, yeah. There's been an accident…"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm okay, honest. Roy was driving and he kind of skidded on some ice and we hit this tree, but we're okay."

"Where are you?"

"You know the Community Church? The parking lot and the police are here. The minister saw it from the rectory and came out to help, too, but we're okay—we were wearing seatbelts and the airbags deployed so we weren't hurt or anything."

"I'll be right there, you're to stay right where you are and I'll come get you—have the paramedics been called or an ambulance?"

"No, no one's hurt. We really are okay. The car is pretty messed up, but we weren't hurt."

"Stay where you are, I'll be there in a few minutes."

It wasn't far, less than two miles and Alfred was there in less than five minutes, arriving to the sight of flashing police lights from two cruisers and small knots of neighbors standing around. The car was against a tree, horn blaring until an officer cut the wire. He glanced at the car as he hurried over to Dick, the front end was smashed with broken pieces of headlight and bumper on the ground, the windshield shattered from the inside by the force of the air bag deployment, now deflated, laying attached to the dashboard and looking like just what they were—deflated balloons. Both boys were standing talking with several police, Dick was breathing into a small machine, obviously checking his blood alcohol level.

"0.0. You're okay. Both of you check out okay—good thing you boys weren't doing any drinking or you'd be in some serious trouble, you hear me? Now, you sure you don't want a ride over to the ER, get yourselves checked out?"

Alfred looked at the two of them, the two plain clothed Titans looking like any sheepish and upset teens. "I would strongly suggest you heed the officer's suggestion, gentlemen. After a crash like the one you've clearly endured, any number of things could turn up you don't suspect at the moment—and I'm sure Master Queen would agree with me, Master Roy."

The boys exchanged glances, Dick speaking for the two of them and a little too quickly. "Really, Alf, we're good. Honest we are. Maybe we could just go home?"

"Are you a parent?" One of the four policemen addressed Alfred.

"No, I'm not. I am, however, able to make decisions for this young man. If it's all right with you, I shall transport the two of them to the Wayne Clinic to be checked for injury by a family friend there; a doctor. You have no objections, sir?"

"Nah, take them wherever you want, but what about the car? You going to call for a tow or you want us to do it?"

"I believe that Hillside Towing in Bristol should be able to handle the problem. Master Dick, might I have your phone? Thank you." Three minutes later the towing was arranged for, the bill to be sent to Mr. Wayne and the police promised a copy of the report would be available in the morning if he wanted to just stop by the station house. Alfred assured them the report would be collected and now, if they didn't mind, he would like to get them over to the clinic.

Leslie checked them both out, x-rayed Roy's arm, which turned out to be sprained and not broken despite his insistence to the police he was uninjured and gave Dick an MRI before telling them he was fine and should be all right if Alfred watched him through the night. As long as he didn't have any double vision, headaches, nausea or passed out he should be fine. Both boys were in light shock, which also should pass. She also recommended hot showers or baths to relax them and make the physical trauma ache less. There seemed to be no early sign of back or neck strain. They could both go home, but call her or take them to the ER if anything didn't seem right—immediately and don't wait till morning.

The drive back to the Manor was awkward, to say the least.

"Have you informed Master Queen of this evening's events, Master Roy?"

"He's out with Dinah so he'll be busy at least through lunch tomorrow. He'll find out soon enough—don't worry about it."

Quite. "You shall stay with us tonight. Dick, Master Bruce is 'out', as I said, but I know he'll want to be informed about this as soon as possible. Do you agree?"

"Uh, no. I'm fine, we both are. He doesn't need to be called in early or anything. I'll tell him at breakfast in the morning—there's no point upsetting him for nothing and he's probably doing something important."

Alfred saw the boys exchange a glance in the rearview mirror. "Would you care to tell me how this happened?"

"We hit ice and skidded." Roy was nothing if not unhelpful.

"I was under the impression that you all have had extensive driving courses, professional courses in accident avoidance, am I not correct?"

Another back seat glance before Dick took the initiative. "We skidded on ice, Alfred."

"Which was included in those courses, unless I'm mistaken."

"It was, but—it was really sudden. I mean, we were fine and then we were against the tree. We didn't have time to react or do anything—Roy tried, but it was like a second or something, maybe less. I mean, you think we wanted to hit a tree?"

"What I think is that you were likely distracted by something and thus opened yourself up to mishap. Am I correct?"

"I guess…"

"And I would hazard to guess that you may have been traveling too fast for the conditions, as well. Am I again correct?"

"Maybe a little, but it was black ice—you saw it, Alfred. I mean, c'mon—accidents happen. We didn't do it on purpose or anything."

The Manor gates went by, closing behind them. Alfred pulled into the garage letting the two boys go through the kitchen and avoiding the cold air. Dick knew how worried the man was just by that fact; normally no member of 'the family' would ever enter the house through anything other than the front door. Once in the warmth of the house, coats hung on the backs of the kitchen chairs—another indication of just how upset Alfred was, he started to fix them hot chocolate, both to warm and sooth them and to help them sleep.

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Dr. Thompkins said you were in light shock; your pupils are dilated. Have you a headache or double vision? Any of the other symptoms she was concerned about?"

"I'm fine."

"Master Roy?"

"I'm good."

Alfred knew that wasn't the truth, but he decided not to press them just yet. He'd keep an eye on them, make sure nothing serious was wrong with them and hope for the best for now. "I strongly suggest you both take baths to make sleep easier. You say you're all right now, but it's likely inevitable that you'll be a bit sore soon enough."

They both knew he was probably right. The crash had been a lot harder than they'd admit and Dick, for one, had a pretty good case of the shakes. "Is the Jacuzzi heated up? I think that would feel pretty good."

Alfred nodded. "The master used it earlier this evening. You'll both find bathing suits in the changing rooms in the solarium. Would you like anything to drink while you're in there?"

Shaking their heads, thanking him the two boys headed to soak. The accident had been worse than either of them would admit and it was just flat out dumb luck neither one of them had been hurt. Dick's face like he'd been punched out by someone with a grudge after hitting the airbag—or did it hit him? And he knew that come morning every muscle in his body would be hurting him pretty bad and he assumed Roy felt the same. One minute they'd been riding around having some fun and the next—blammo.

Damn, the hot water felt good. Maybe he could just sleep here tonight.

"Dude—God, I'm really sorry. You really okay?"

"A little sore, nothing serious. You?"

"The same." They just soaked for a few minutes, Dick was getting sleepy and Roy looked like he was drooping, too. "It was my fault, I mean I was the one driving."

Dick didn't even bother to open his eyes to answer. "It was an accident, it wasn't like you crashed on purpose for Christ sake. Forget it."

"Is Bruce gonna kill me?"

"Probably."

"C'mon. How pissed is he gonna be?" Everyone was afraid of Bruce. Okay, maybe Alfred wasn't, but he had to be the only one. Dick usually wasn't, but there were times Roy knew he'd stayed over at the Tower just to not come home—not that he'd ever admit that, of course.

"He's not going to be happy, but he'll be okay when he knows we're not hurt. Don't worry about it."

"Easy for you to say."

Dick gave him a quiet look, God he was tired; talking was almost more work that he was up to right now. "He'll lay it on thick, but he'll be relieved we're okay then he'll talk to Ollie about how you're out of control and a bad influence and then it will blow over. You know; the usual."

"But it _was_ my fault; I was the one driving and I was going like sixty-five when we hit that path of ice."

"And I didn't tell you to slow down. I could have you know. It is possible to stop Roy Harper when he's determined to be stupid."

"Sez you." But he wasn't laughing. "You sure you're okay? You hit pretty hard." And Roy had noticed him touching the walls on the way through the house, as though he was having trouble with his vaunted 'perfect' balance. God, if he'd hurt Dick…

"I told you, I told the cops, I told Leslie and I told Alfred that I'm fine now fuck off if you don't mind."

"When does Bruce usually get home?" It was close to one.

"Before dawn, depending. You'll know when he's back, though he might just wait till breakfast to say anything."

"Batman over bacon and eggs. Perfect."

"Nah, he only eats fruit for breakfast. His body is a temple and all that."

He knew Dick was trying to cheer him up a little, lighten the atmosphere, but cripes. Oh, God—and he was supposed to sleep now? Right. "God, Dick—I'm frigging sorry, man, y'know?"

"'S'okay. Hell, you're the one who's going to have to tell Ollie you smashed up his car."

"You really okay? I mean you seemed a little dizzy a while ago."

"Just tired."

"Isn't that one of the things Dr. Thompson said to watch out for?"

Dick didn't bother to open his eyes; he seemed completely relaxed or maybe just tired. Maybe both. "I've been up since five, that's all. I'm good—lucky the airbags worked, huh?"

"Oh yeah." God, if anything had happened to Dick it would have been his fault, he was driving and he was going too fast and they both knew it but Dick, being Dick, wouldn't ever say anything and Roy knew that, too. Jesus, they'd been lucky.

"Master Dick, Master Roy. If you would get out now, please—you've been in there well over the recommended twenty minutes." The two boys opened their eyes; Alfred was standing there with two large towels, wrapping them as they each stepped out and looking at their eyes for signs of deeper shock or anything else. They passed inspection.

"Now, if the two of you would retire for the evening I think the best thing for you would be rest. I'll be checking in periodically to make sure there are no delayed reactions to your misadventure, so don't be surprised to see me. Now, upstairs with both of you."

Too tired and sore and in no position to argue, they did as they were told, Dick going to his own room, Roy to one of the guest rooms on the same corridor. The room was twice the size of the one he had at Ollie's and the mattress more comfortable. Even the attached bathroom was bigger than Ollie's kitchen. His last conscious thought as he drifted off, despite his aches and sore muscles, was that Grayson had landed in it. His life may have taken a seriously crappy turn when his parents were killed, but this was decent; even if the price was being an orphan and living with Bruce. Roy could get used to this.

Twice during the night he remembered Alfred coming in to gently shake him apologetically awake, check his pulse and look at his pupils then leave. Twice he came in and Roy didn't wake enough to remember he'd been there. The fifth time he was just drifting back down when he heard sounds of commotion, semi-controlled commotion from the next room.

It was late, early—whatever. The sky was starting to lighten and he could see around the room without turning on the lights.

He heard some people going past the door really fast, like they were running and Alfred's voice saying "In here, this room. Please hurry."

Roy opened the door and looked down the hall just as the paramedics ran past with the wheeled gurney followed by a couple of cops. Dick's room was wide opened all the lights on both inside and in the hallway. Alfred was standing there in his bathrobe and even Roy could tell the thing was silk. The old man's left hand was on the door jam, the other hanging at his side, his expression terrified. He couldn't hear anything else, no voices from the room, but he could make out the sounds of the paramedics doing whatever they were doing to—oh, Jesus, they had to be working on Dick. Of course they were. Who else would be in there and needing medical help? And the accident last night—oh God, it was his fault. This was his fault.

He moved a little closer until he was standing next to Alfred and could see into the room. The two paramedics were working on Dick who looked unconscious on the bed, flat on his back. They had an oxygen mask on his face, had started some kind of IV and were doing CPR. Oh God, his heart had stopped. One of the techs checked something, swore and pulled the mask off Dick's face, replacing it with one of those bags they squeeze to make sure the air keeps going in and put of your lungs.

He wasn't breathing. His heart wasn't beating.

They pulled the deliberator out, slathered some gel/grease on Dick's chest, placed the paddles and waited for the green light to light on the machine. "Clear."

Dick's body jerked in a spasm then fell back onto the bed.

"Nothing." "Again." "Clear." "Again."

Bruce was standing just out of the way wearing just a pair of pajama bottoms, his feet bare, restraining himself from doing—from doing what? From jumping in and helping? From throwing himself on Dick? From killing the two men who were trying to help?

"Nothing. Keep bagging him."

Roy saw the blood then, after the shorter one moved a little. Dick had blood on his chin and chest from something. There wasn't any obvious cut or wound—but the blood…

"He was coughing when I came in to check on him. He coughed up the blood. That's when I called for help." Alfred didn't take his eyes off Dick, but had somehow realized Roy had seen. There was so much red, almost like he was still wearing his Robin vest.

"He was cold, his lips were blue he was so cold. That's what I thought but he couldn't breath and he said his chest hurt. He looked at me for help and he was frightened." Alfred turned to glance at Roy for just a moment before going back to stare at Dick. "He's never afraid but he seemed to know something was terribly wrong and that I could help him; make it better. I called for help, but…"

Roy put his hand on Alfred's shoulder, noticing how thin it was, almost bony, but stiff with fear and tension.

"Anything? Again. Clear."

Helpless to do anything at that moment, Alfred just stood in the door, out of the way. He had been checking both boys hourly, just as Leslie had said. Master Roy seemed fine, he mentioned a slight headache, but it seemed to be just that and nothing more. He was alert, coherent and eating well with no nausea or any other problems. Master Dick, though—he'd behaved as he always did when he'd been involved in some sort of mishap. He'd insisted he was all right, disliked being fussed over and wanted to be left alone to lick his own wounds. It had always—well, almost always worked before. Yes, there had been a few times when the medical professionals had to intervene, but it was rare and the accident had seemed so minor, all things considered.

The boys were shaken when they'd gotten back to the house, that much was apparent and understandable, normal. They'd drunk the hot chocolate without incident or any stomach problems and the time in the Jacuzzi was relaxed and quiet, just as hoped.

When asked, the two of them had easily gone to bed, clearly exhausted by the stress of the evening.

He'd looked in every hour and they'd been all right. Dear God—if he'd suspected anything at all with either of the youngsters being amiss he'd have called the authorities immediately.

He'd looking in at two, three, four, five; they'd been fine. They'd seemed to be recovering well and would be as good as new in the morning to face Master Bruce at breakfast. Alfred had even thought he'd make Master Dick's favorites to ease the difficult meal he faced in a few hours.

When he'd checked at six Master Roy was as well as ever but when he'd opened the door to Dick's room; dear God.

He'd been short of breath, his color as white as the sheets; he was cold, his skin clammy, his lips blue and then he'd started the coughing. The blood that came up and the pain he was in. Alfred had done what he could, helped him sit up to try to clear the air passages but he'd been in such terrible pain and he was so frightened. Reaching for the phone on the nightstand, he'd called 911, begging them to hurry. He hadn't wanted to leave the child for a second, but had to open the gates for the ambulance—he'd run to Master Bruce's suite, roused him and told him to see to Dick while he went to the kitchen to press the controls that would disarm the alarms and open the front gates. Then he called Leslie. He left the front door opened for the medical people and gone back upstairs as quickly as he could manage.

Bruce was sitting up near the pillows, supporting Dick against his side, an arm around his shoulders. The boy was worse in the few minutes he'd been gone.

"He can't breath, he says his chest hurts—Jesus, it looks like a heart attack—oxygen, Alfred, get the oxygen."

Blood was still dripping from Dick's mouth; his lips bluer and he would have fallen over if Bruce hadn't been there.

Alfred got the canister of oxygen they kept in case it was needed and had it working in seconds. He'd done this before, too many times.

In minutes, though he had no idea how many the paramedics walked in with a couple of the local police, bags in hand and got started, talking to someone on the radio—probably a doctor back at the hospital. Alfred answered the questions they asked and saw the look they exchanged when he'd told them about the accident a few hours before. "Did he hit his chest, do you know?" Time had telescoped and distorted so later they wouldn't know if it had been ten minutes or an hour between the paramedics arriving and the trip to the hospital.

"The air bags deployed, but he was wearing the seatbelt. Both of them were, even the police said so." That was when Alfred noticed the two police officers. Of course. Any call to 911 would get the response, but a call from Wayne Manor would get close action. It might be standard, but he could see the three other police cruisers in the front drive; that was more than the usual response.

"Heparin. IV, please." The man spoke over his shoulder. "What's his name, Dick? It looks like he may have a clot or maybe a bone chip would be my guess. The Hep will thin his blood so any clots may dissolve and should help any new ones from forming. Sammy, you got that? Good. Okay, Dick? We're going to take you to the hospital, you good with that? I know you're hurting, but we're going to help you so don't worry about anything—you his father?" Bruce nodded. "We've got room for one in the ambulance." They got the gurney ready, transferred Dick, being as careful as they could not to jostle him any more than they had to. "This place have an elevator big enough to take the stretcher? No? No problem, we'll get him down the stairs—hey, we do it everyday, okay? Don't worry. Okay, Dick? You're going for a little ride."

"Alfred?" Bruce looked over—one of them had to ride in the back with Dick.

"Yes, of course, go with him." Alfred handed him the first shirt he'd come to as they walked past the master suite and put a pair of loafers in his hand as well. The rest he'd bring with him when he followed in he Bentley. "Master Roy, you may come with me. Please get dressed as quickly as possible."

The ambulance left, Alfred and Roy following three minutes behind.

"But he was all right. He was. We were talking in the Jacuzzi and he was fine—he was a little tired, but he was okay. I swear he was. I swear it." Roy was close to tears, close enough that his voice was quavering

By then it was after seven and the early commuters were starting fill the roads. The traffic lights lasted too long and the sun was in his eyes the two miles to the hospital. He pulled into ER parking, the ambulance already there, the back loading doors opened and the back empty.

Inside they pressed the button to open the double doors into the ER work area, passing the curtained partitions until they got to number seven. Bruce was there, a doctor talking to him.

"We'll run tests to make sure, but it looks like it was a pulmonary embolism. The accident he was in this evening? He probably hit his chest, even with the airbag. A small clot probably formed, maybe a small bone fragment and it worked its way loose."

"But he was fine. I checked him hourly and he seemed as healthy as you or me."

The man looked at Alfred, he wasn't without pity, but he'd seen this too often. "He probably was fine—you didn't miss anything; there weren't really any symptoms to miss. Then when it got to his heart it stopped—I'm sorry. It's difficult to diagnose these things and they can be almost dormant for hours—weeks, even."

"But, he's only seventeen years old." It was incomprehensible.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne. I truly am." He paused; there wasn't really anything else he could say. "I'll be here if you have any questions and Dr. Thompkins will be here in an hour or so as well."

Alfred could see Dick laying on the narrow gurney, IV still in his arm, chest bare, straps still around him from the ambulance trip, still smeared by the gel used for the unsuccessful attempts to get his heart started again. His hair was tangled from sleep and the last hour or so, his skin pale under the drying blood.

And he was so still.

Standing beside the bed, Alfred touched his hand, the one without a needle in it. The skin was already cool, no residue of warmth remained, no pulse, no hint of motion of any kind and he was left with the clichéd image of an empty vessel with the essence gone and the container now worthless.

Worthless to them.

"Excuse me. I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I have to…" The nurse hesitated.

Bruce finished for her. "I told them to take whatever they can use. Do you need me to sign that?" He took the pen, scrawling his name on some release form.

Alfred and Roy stared, Alfred speaking first. "Of course, he'd want that."

"He's not even frigging cold and you're going to let them cut him up? This is Dick—and you don't care what the fuck they do to him." The other two turned to him, Alfred stunned beyond his normal coolness into speechlessness, Bruce as much in shock as the youngsters had been earlier. "He was raised Catholic—isn't there something about them not believing in defiling a body or something?" He'd wavered at the end, but this was for Dick—it might have mattered to him.

"Roy, Catholics are all right with it. The Pope said it was giving a gift of yourself. Dick didn't have a problem with it." He paused, remembering a conversation from a couple of years ago when Dick had said to use whatever if he was killed—it wouldn't matter to him anymore. "He didn't have a problem with it." Later Roy would think that was the only time he'd ever heard Bruce speak gently.

"Yeah, but…" He stopped, this was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. In fact he believed in donating organs himself—it wasn't like the original owner needed them anymore and he knew Dick was practical enough to probably think the same way, but to have his eyes removed, his liver, his bone marrow, his lungs, his heart if it wasn't too damaged; whatever they could use just cut out—this was Dick, damnit. Dick's perfect body would be sliced up like they were gutting a dead fish or cow or something.

Dick, who was one of his best friends. Dick, who had been riding in his car. Dick, who had seen more death and pain in his seventeen years than anyone should. Dick who led the Titans, risked his life for his team mates more times than they could count, who made sure they all were in top shape, ready to go at a moments notice and trained well enough to come home in one piece.

Dick who he'd killed because he'd been driving too fucking fast and didn't see the damn ice and couldn't stop—.

"It was an accident, Roy. You know that. We all knew that and so did Dick." Bruce seemed to tired, too worn to feel anything himself and Roy wished he was that tired but—shit. He was standing in an ER with Dick, make that Dick's body five feet away and Bruce frigging Batman was telling him it wasn't his fault.

Of course it was his fault.

He was driving the car. He was going too fast.

Dick had been laughing, they'd been having fun but he was driving and now they were getting ready to use Dick for salvage like a damn car in a junkyard.

Bruce interrupted his private self-pity. "Alfred? Would you please call Ollie—Mr. Queen? Roy, it wasn't your fault and no one blames you. You know Dick didn't so don't…if he'd been driving it could have happened and you'd be lying in there instead." He seemed to run out of steam. "It's okay." He awkwardly put his hand on Roy's bicep for a second.

God.

Ollie came to get him and made no mention of the fact he'd just killed his best friend, accident or not. He was even kind and solicitous, asking if he was hungry or cold or tired. He never said he held Roy responsible and neither did anyone else and that may have been the worst part for him and the hardest to deal with; knowing he'd murdered Dick as surely as if he'd walked up and shot him and no one would admit it.

At the funeral Donna was kind, as always, Garth was quiet and said nothing just like he'd been when Tula died and Wally just avoided him. There was a crowd, of course. Dick Grayson knew a lot of people and lots more wanted to suck up to Bruce because he'd lost his son. There were masses of flowers banked around the church and a couple of girls from his class in school cried, making Roy wonder if they really even knew him or had just sat behind him in math or something. Even some of the old circus people were there, talking about how good he'd been when he was like seven or something but none of them had seen him in years.

The burial was bad. It was still cold and the wind had kicked up. The pallbearers, including the three remaining male Titans, almost slipped carrying the coffin on the frozen, icy slope don to the plot but managed to kept their balance and not drop the box and Roy thought how Dick would have laughed at that—'C'mon guys, a little professionalism here if it's not too much trouble. No face plants, okay?' Dick was put with his parents and his name would be carved on the same stone soon, along with the dates.

Afterwards, after the reception and the required hugs and reminiscing, Roy told Ollie he needed some air. They were back at the apartment and he needed to get out, walk.

This was killing him. He'd killed Dick and no one would admit it, no one would even frigging talk about it. He knew Dick wouldn't have blamed him, would have just laughed and told him it was okay—at least they'd had fun but he'd have been sad; he just wouldn't have let anyone know. That sounded stupid, but he would have hated all the stuff he'd miss now. You die at seventeen, you miss a whole lot, sixty or seventy years worth of stuff and that was Roy's fault.

Fifteen or so blocks down he stopped, sitting on a park bench when some guy came up, asking him if he was looking to get high.

He bought his first fix of heroin.

1/22/06

14


End file.
